The Potty Mouth Granny

The dating scene sucks. Like, majorly. If you scroll through social media, you’ll see a lot of women just tapping out—done with the games, done with the nonsense, chilling like a pack of villains, secretly plotting to take over the damn world.

But let’s not lie to ourselves: every woman gets horny. At least I do. And sometimes it hits at the most random times. Like, you’re minding your business, folding laundry, and suddenly your brain goes, “You know who’d look real good right now?” Boom. Fantasy activated.

Now, imagine this. A remote control for women. Not for the TV, not for Netflix, not for the AC—nah, a remote for men. With the click of a button, poof, the man of your choosing pops up right in front of you. Your crush from the gym, that celebrity you’ve been drooling over, even that one fine friend you’d never admit you want. Whoever. Whenever. Maybe even two if you’re feeling greedy.

You’d have your way with him. No small talk. No bad dates. No “wyd” texts. Just straight to the good part. And when you’re done? Click—send his ass back where he came from. No strings. No mess. No awkward next-day follow-up. Just pure pleasure on demand.

My goodness. Wouldn’t that be fun, ladies? The power to make the man of the night—or the man of the morning—appear, serve his purpose, and disappear with the touch of a button. No drama, no crumbs, no wasted mascara. Just satisfaction and silence.